When I was 25, I was working in real estate in New York. I didn’t like my career path and was trying to work out what to do with my life – and then was thrown a huge curveball. On 14 December 2010, at the Woodhaven Boulevard station in Queens I was hit by a subway train. I have no memory of it. I’ve lived in New York my entire life, so I’ve always taken the subway everywhere, but I don’t even know why I was at that station – it wasn’t on my usual route. I must have fallen asleep and missed my stop. It’s bizarre. You’d think I would remember getting hit by a train.
What I know about that day has been pieced together from what I’ve been told and the police reports. There were no cameras at the station, so I don’t know how I ended up on the tracks. According to a report, the train conductor saw me down there, trying to get back on the platform. It was an express train, so it wasn’t supposed to stop. He pulled on the emergency brakes, but it was too late.
The collision left me with a brain injury, a broken jaw, a collapsed lung, a fractured pelvis and broken bones in my left arm. Weirdly, nothing happened to my legs.
I was taken to hospital and put in a medically induced coma for two and a half weeks. When they brought me round, they didn’t tell me what had happened straight away. They weren’t sure about my mental state. I had memory loss. The most recent thing I could remember was a trip in August 2010. After a month in hospital, they told me. I didn’t believe them. I was in the hospital for about two and a half months; it was only about two months in that I finally grasped what had happened. It was shocking. It seemed like something you wouldn’t survive.
Four months after the accident, I started going to an outpatient centre where I had physical, occupational and speech therapy. I also started having therapy for my mental health. That made all the difference. I remember one session where I said to my therapist: “All of my friends are getting married and buying houses and starting families, and I’m here.” My therapist said: “Which one of your friends got hit by a train?” It was a good point.
Trying to rebuild my life was difficult – I was bedridden and had very little autonomy or privacy. I had to put my life on hold while I waited for medical treatments. Over the next seven years, I had 20 to 25 surgeries.
My family and friends were there for me all the way, especially my father. I lived with him in the suburbs of Manhattan. He drove me to all my doctor’s appointments – I jokingly referred to him as my handler. My friends would tell me stories of past times that would jog my memory, or at least make me laugh if I couldn’t remember them.
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Two years after the accident, I started to see what I was capable of doing on my own. In January 2013, I met up with some friends. It was my first solo outing into Manhattan since the accident. I got a Long Island Rail Road train and then a cab. But on the way home, I took the subway for the first time. I wanted to see if any memories would come back to me, but nothing did – I was disappointed.
Later that year, I went to law school. They had told me they could make adjustments because of my memory issues, but it turned out that wasn’t the case. I had to drop out, and felt angry and defeated. I eventually did a master’s in corporate communication.
Right now, I’m living at my father’s house and looking for a job. I’ve had a few positions since my accident, but none of them have worked out. I want to become completely self-sufficient – that’s my biggest goal.
I wish I knew what happened to me. It’s been almost 14 years, and I’m still searching for answers. There isn’t a day that goes by without me being subtly reminded of it, whether it’s my memory lapses or seeing my scars. I’m 38 and still compare myself with the old me. I’m not the same person any more, and I don’t think I’ve accepted it yet. But I’m open to the idea that, one day, I will.
As told to Isabelle Aron
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